The Burglar's Dog Am not on about me new lass here either i bought this book yest cos it was half bat in some sale at work, what a fucking crease - no holds barred reviews of the bars in town n tells it like it is. I have only read a few and been in hysterics cos you can just picture them. Anyone else read this or read the site? http://www.theburglarsdog.co.uk/
I remember reading bits of it a while back. The review of that 90's bar (Boom?) on the Bigg Market had me in stitches...
"It had to be fucking chocolate, didn’t it" Adolf Hitler was a bit of a bad lad. He was. Don’t know if it’s ever been mentioned, but it’s true. And while his administration famously and admirably made the trains run on time, his aggressive foreign policy, brutal suppression of political opposition, psychotic megalomania and the tiny matter of systematic genocide spoiled his CV somewhat. Similarly, and with no less impact on world events, the people behind Jesmond’s As You Like It picked a winner with that bar’s mix of upmarket design and charity shop clutter, yet are also responsible for the insulting faux-luxury of Apartment and the embarrassing array of ‘70s kitsch over at Mr Lynch. They now present this place - which I take to be Nancy’s Bordello since there’s no bloody sign on the outside of it – as an example of what can be done with the bits they had left over. And what have they achieved? Something on a par with a common room designed by the pupils at a failing school for the autistic and partially sighted, more or less. Who else could expect success from ironic tasselled lampshades, Grandpa’s tool bench furniture, and ornately wacky picture frames around the telly screens? What other educational experiment could throw up chocolate – it had to be fucking chocolate, didn’t it – brown wallpaper with repugnant turquoise and green lovebirds on? And why else would there be Pac-Man, Scrabble and flaming Kerplunk available for the service users? After thorough online research it seems at Nancy’s there’s "no room for attitudes or big egos, and no time for wannabes or I ams". There is, however, plenty of space for utter cuntitude, most abundantly displayed by the tomfool behind the bar with the headset on. You look like a dick, man; no hourly rate in the world is sufficient remuneration for that much loss of dignity. Nancy’s Bordello also describe themselves as eccentric, falling into the age-old trap whereby if you think you’re eccentric you’re most definitely not; you’re just a pain in the arse. But I wouldn’t mind so much if this was just harmless, autonomous twattery, delivered with a pinch of freshly milled self-deprecation. Instead they aim a condescending sneer at the imagined dietary habits and linguistic patterns of the people that used to live in this part of town before all the student wankers started colonising it, serving up a "Sexy Sarnie" they call a Fish Finger Belta (with tartare sauce and rocket, just to underline their superiority) washed down with a Double Cush Wor Kid from the cocktail menu. Every single aspect of this bar, from website folly to patronising table service, is just fucking appalling, and its customers are – almost without exception – tossers to the nth degree. Finally, quoting once more from their own promotional material, it doesn’t matter who you are, who you think you are, where you’re from or what you look like, there’s just one rule at Nancy’s house of fun… sup the fuck up and go somewhere else. For: Hey! Wow! OMG! There’s another floor of this preposterous piddle upstairs! Against: Get your fucking feet off the settee, you slovenly whore.
"'Boom!'? More like..." SHITE! For: That's the easiest - and most truthful - review I've ever done Against: You think I'm joking, don't you?
HAHA - Blackett Arms, should be there in an hour: The entire pub's clientele is gathered round one table in the room to the left and, foolishly, I catch the eyes of the couple facing me; he's got his feet on the table and he's cleaning his ears with a beermat, and she's stuffed into her top like minced pig's knackers into sausage skin. And they're looking at us as if to say, "Who are you and what the fuck are you doing in here?" Shit, man: Will this pint ever end? Even the bloke on the bandit doesn't like us; he's dropping his guts like a cornered skunk, probably to keep us far away in case we snaffle his surefire jackpot technique.
